Corona
by luaxx
Summary: Names are dangerous things. Most mythology say you should not say them lightly - they have power. Malorie Lewis will have to review her destiny. She will find that her story goes far beyond the orphanage where she grew up, and her magic comes long before that horrible accident. Hogwarts will always help those who turn to it, but does this also fit fateful destinations?


Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were two big pieces of shit, thank you very much. They were the last people in the world who you would expect to have souls, or any sign of humanity, fact that would really piss off the dementors, once they simply didn't compromise with the natural order of things, where they would be kissed, and the world would be free of them.

But I'm getting ahead here, even though I didn't tell a lie. The situation is that this is not his story. No, no Dursleys and forehead scars around here, this is not the book of the Boy Who Lived. This is my story, although that four-eyes do appear around here, at one time or another. No big deal, you see? I just had to start cursing the Dursley, because they are a family to be cursed at any possible situation.

My history begins just a few days before Harry Potter's one. We got something in common, Harry and I. A few things, actually, but let's go by parts. Chronologically speaking, our first similarity is fiendishly cruel: the beginning of our lives was marked by a Unforgivable Curse. He, the _avada kedavra_ \- the killing curse. Me, the _cruciatus_ \- the torture curse.

It was in a wizard living room, even though it looked amazingly like a muggle one. Involved a young couple of aurors, their one year old son quiet upstairs, and a woman. There were two guys with her, but they aren't really important. Let's focus on the woman. This woman was having a bunch of fun in that living room, but, as it usually happens when your fun involves the cruel and violent torture of two persons, the authorities ended the spree.

I was far away from there. Far away from Privet Drive, far away from that living room. In a house that was too big for just a few people. But it was pretty, anyway, even if cold. The huge front gardens, the woods around it and the ancient, magical marble that had been there for over a thousand years, and would be a thousand more. I remember the gold, the silver and the diamond. I remember golden handrails, the dark and long wooden tables, a room that was an entire wing. More was more, and all the luxury was still little. After all, it was a palace.

That's not where I always stayed, but it was a rather recurring scenario. Even more in the last weeks, when the blonde woman took me from my room and brought me, and I smiled at her when she did it. I didn't care about the exchange. Where I used to stay was even more cold, even if smaller, the sound of the sea punishing the stones did the lullaby turn, when he was not there to sing for me. And he wasn't for too long.

I liked when he came every night, before he didn't show up anymore. I could feel him looking at me, his presence much more real and solid than the room itself. He sang in strange words, low noises that I could still understand. And he smiled. Small or large, it always reached his eyes. So bright and so dark, I knew I was everything he could see at that moment.

When he stopped coming, she came much more, but not for long either. I remember her feet on the floor, her angry voice, the explosion of her temper. Something was wrong, so monstrously wrong… I could feel it in her when she came and took me in her arms, when she whispered to me her own song, when she spoke against my head. Sometimes, soft and breathy words there. At others, they came out sharp and shrill like a long scratch.

At the end, there was only the shrill, sharp, and angry. So the blonde woman came, and I liked it a lot. She took me away from the agitated woman who made things explode, took me away from her shrill words, from her anxious eyes, and her firm hands with long nails. She put me between hers, at the big house, with diamond chandeliers and a whole wing just for me. And he. The other, he had my age, and was also there.

I liked there. I liked the very blonde woman, the boy with star eyes and the world that belonged to me. But I didn't stay. Just one apparition was enough to end up my life the way it was, the way they were building it. I was taken from the big house, removed from the blonde woman, never saw again the agitated one, neither the man who sang to me. Someone took me far, far away from them all. In another world, that didn't belong to me.

The muggle world: an old catholic orphanage, in a tiny town on the map, nothing anyone would pay attention twice. Not even one, actually.

I was there for a short time, this time. A young couple adopted me - just married and approvers of the wonders of the end of the century. Why go through all the annoyance of pregnancy, if you can go somewhere and choose the baby that pleases you the most? In this case, I was the baby. The name of the couple? Lewis. Agatha and William Lewis. They put me in the car (already adapted for the baby they would bring on the return) and, believe me, they were slow to give me a name. It was to be expected, since their whole lives were already adapted for a baby, from the crib room, the diaper and license, and safety rails, that they would have already chosen a name, right?

Yeah, they didn't. Not so easily. Before anything, they wanted to get to know me, and then, give me a name that would fit me. I have no idea, what a one-year-old can do to demonstrate a striking personality, to the point of choosing her own name, but in the end, they were induced by the outside more than the inside. Or at least, that's what I think on the good days. The name they gave me was Malorie. But, hey, I'm telling you my rotten stuff, there's no reason for formalities. It's Mal to the intimate, like you, of course.

We had some moments, the Lewis and I, during our five years together. Not that I remember much, but the fact that I don't remember means that nothing was traumatic enough to mark my precocious infantile mind - except, of course, the accident. It seemed predestined, cruel as it may seem. As if every day, and every minute, led to the exact moment the car skidded off the road. The Lewis, who never fought, were in the middle of a discussion. And the road, always safe, was covered in ice.

Their six year old daughter was found a few yards from the bodies, completely intact. A miracle, the cops and the paramedics repeated, looking from the smashed car, to the bodies in and out of it (cause there were pieces all over the place). While everyone had that pitying look, I went from the road to the hospital, and from the hospital to a orphanage (oh, yes, the same one), keeping my mouth very shut.

I, with all my wisdom, acquired in half a dozen years of existence, thought it was better not to correct them, when they tried, in anyway possible, soften the fact that my parents were dead. I heard they were asleep, that they were traveling, that God had called them to have some tea. At some point, I came to the conclusion it would be even impolite to correct them, they were all so certain that the Lewis would come back soon, that I didn't retort (even when I wanted to), that our old cat, rescued from the streets, had finally succumbed to the diseases of his homeless period, living much longer than the vets said he would, but losing in the end.

The Lewis didn't believe in bedtime stories and fairy tales. They told me what would happen, what was helpful when the animal started to die, right on my lap. He was old and a little deformed (a missing ear and a broken tail), but Church had a comfortable and satisfying end, purring under my hands, until he slowly, really slowly, stop breathing. I shouted that he was leaving moments before he actually left, and Agatha stood beside me, and wiped my face. Our cat was buried in the backyard of the house, and I promised I would always visit him. Yeah, my bad Church.

Nor did I say how I knew, putting dead pets aside, how I had survived the accident. It wasn't a miracle, it wasn't God and it wasn't luck. It was magic. I remember wishing so badly to get out of that car, away from the screaming and from the accusations, that I was already standing outside the road when I saw the car get hit by another.

A part of me always thinks of the idea that my William lost control of the car, when looked back and saw the empty backseat. The other part, much bigger, always tells that part to shut up.

Both parts, the loser and the bigger one, by the way, agree that it would have been better to have been dented. "But Mal", you ask, "it could not be that bad, right? Life is such a priceless gift, and you were so young"... Shh. Hush now.

You're right. It's not like in the movies. For sure, those Hollywood productors make all the nuns evil and the punishments cruel by pure poetic license, yes. Just a appeal for the public, no doubt.

I don't really disagree. I know it's a lot worse in reality, and I have the scars to prove it. Quick question: Who has heard of Opus Dei? It is an arm of the Catholic Church, a muggle religion, but it's a very, very unloved arm. Making a precise comparison, it is like the arms of squibs and "blood traitors" in pureblood families - It exists, everyone knows it exists (yeah, you're not fucking pure), but it's existence is almost 100% ignored.

The reason? Well, it must have something to do with the ancient and archaic customs they adopt, besides, there's that small part of self-imposed flogging as a way of being in communion with God. Hey, why pray when you can find out how fast you stop bleeding? The only difference, is that in the orphanage, Sister Greta (the responsible nun in the place, since the abbes, Joan, was eighty-four, kinda blind, and almost totally deaf) did the honour of communing God with others.

Of course, this beautiful specimen of holy hypocrisy defined, from the moment I got out of the car, that I had been begotten by the devil himself. And, you see, it's not that she's all wrong, but I was six years old, and she certainly wasn't one of the people who knew that, since not even I had this knowledge.

The day Greta and I started our little battle, was the day that the social worker dropped me outside the orphanage, again. The Saint Mary's Home for Girls was located in Wiltshire, a few hours from London, and a few more from the civilization of the county itself, when the rode wasn't muddy from the rain. You know you arrived by the sound of gravel being smashed by the tires.

The woman, who would introduce me to hell, was waiting right at the beginning of the path, well maintained, full of gravel. Tall, upright posture, and very blue eyes, I would still discover blond hair under the hood. Her smile made her eyes truly shine, probably for the untouched new flesh to whip.

She blessed the man, and led me inside without looking back, very aware of the way the child pulled the bag awkwardly, behind her, almost breaking her neck in a attempt to see completely the mansion that towered ahead. I couldn't see at the time, but my childish initial claim was right: the place was huge. A large, tall construction, ancient and beautiful like a church. There was indeed a church, or a few. The one that was open to the sparse residents was outside, far west, upon a small ridge, giving the impression of having a bent base.

The orphanage, on the other hand, was quite straight and solid on the dirt floor. Gravel changed to manicured green grass and then marble, as it reached the five-step staircase. Inside, it was silent like a cathedral, and lit up too. Stained glass and crucifixes, statues of Saint Mary and bibles. You can't blame a child for not getting excited about the environment. Maybe Greta saw my remarkable lack of admiration for the religious artifacts, maybe I was walking too fast, or maybe I soiled the floor when I entered, I have no idea. If you wanna know, it might have been _nothing_, the woman was crazy. The bad thing is that having a questionable sanity didn't help the children under her responsibility. It didn't help me.

— Now, honey — she had her eyes fixed on me, while we were standing on the entrance hall. Where there was supposed to be noise and child talk, there was nothing. The place would pass by a convent on a vow of silence without difficulty. — I must explain some rules to you, after all, I would hate for you to do something wrong. Wrong is a sin, Malorie, and sins are paid in the same way as His Son submitted.

I was six, not exactly an expert on bibles and the history of Jesus Christ. But at least I had enough reason to know that anything that made this woman minimally happy was wickedly cruel. And Greta spoke of sin with her eyes shining on me, going up and down, looking for any excuses to make me pay for it. I paid one exactly that night, for showing up mid-dinner. My butt got to know the paddle and I found out I was lucky it wasn't the Stick.

The Stick was one of Greta's favorite punishments, so much, that the woman used to walk the thing up and down, just waiting for an excuse to use it. It was long and flexible, but hardy. Most girls, even the ones younger than me, already had considerable marks where the Stick hit them - red welts surrounded by green and purple, whole pieces of skin missing, and thin, deep scars spreading here and there.

Rest assured, I'm not here to disappoint anyone. I also met the Stick. It and I became very, very close. We even had an appointment every day, and it started the next morning. I walked a little bit bent by the spanking, and at the time of sitting at the coffee table, I was more standing than sitting, in fact. But this allowed me to see a pale little girl at the next table. Her pretty face crowned with dark hair was marred by the red line that cut from her eyebrow to the end of her cheek, hitting her right on the left eye.

— What happened to her? — I managed to say as I limped over there. The girl, younger than me, was surrounded by some older girls and others of her age. They looked at me not tenderly, but calmly and understandingly, the look of those who had experienced the same feeling and knew it was going nowhere. Out of compassion, one of them answered me.

— She dropped Saint Mary while cleaning.

She said nothing more. Later (in five minutes) I would learn what it really meant. When Greta came into the room and everyone walked away from the girl, as if remembering she had some deadly disease, I was the only one who stayed. Naive and stupid, yes, but no one had explained me all the rules yet. There was no way for me to know that if I were seen supporting any "sinner", I would be taken as a sinner too.

But, being honest, between you and me, I don't think I would have done any different this time, and I can prove it. Surely, I had learned the lesson, with my damn palms burning like Hell, raw, with especial attention, after getting in front of the girl _again_. And yet, that didn't stop me from continuing to get in front of anyone.

You may be asking "Wow, Mal, but you wanted to be beaten?", and I understand. Not many people volunteer for something they know will screw them. I assure you, I didn't enjoy being beaten, whipped, humiliated and tortured at all, but someone had to. Someone had to answer, someone had to look into that woman's eyes, and command her to try swallowing a cross, someone had to get the children out of the way of the Stick, someone had to hold the whip and tell her to look for someone her size.

That someone was me, and my only defense is that I would have been unhappier and more miserable if I had done nothing. If I had spent every day of my life watching all that cruelty, all that freak show, with my head down and my mouth shut, I would have thrown myself from some window (and there were several, believe me, ninety-three, to be exact. And I can tell, I cleaned them all using a broken toothbrush). Everything inside me, every fiber, every bit... Boiled and roared, so I just had to fight.

But shall we leave Greta aside? She has already taken up a lot of space in my life, and I'll not allow her to do the same in my book. Clear conscience is on my side, along with the certainty that she got what she deserved, maybe you'll find out later. Let's jump to the really interesting part. It was sunday, august 4th. In a month it would be september 1st, and I was only minutes from that date to mean everything in my life.

— Ms. Lewis, thanks for welcoming me — the short blonde woman smiled at me with friendly warmth. She was wearing jeans that were too tight for her, and a flowery shirt, highlighting her clear lack of fashion. As an orphan, I immediately thought she might be there to adopt me, but she hardly looked like a woman desperate to be a mother. That made me relax - the Lewis had been enough. — My name is Charity Burbage, I'm a teacher. Would you be interested in a full scholarship?

— Mrs. Burbage, I apologize, but what did I do to deserve a scholarship? — It was more than a valid question. The girls at the orphanage didn't even go to school! We had classes with a few nuns, just the basics, like the fors operations and a little literature. If I wasn't a bookworm, I wouldn't know the difference between a city and a country.

— You were born, Ms. Lewis — her smile was complicit as she leaned towards me. She took something from the spring crime that was her shirt, which looked like a piece of wood to me, for half a second. But pieces of wood don't do my neck crawl, nor my heart beat faster, with _something _subtly exhaling from it. The teacher pointed her wand at the door and made a quick hand gesture, murmuring difficult words. _Abaff_, something. — Do you believe in magic, child?

I wanted to laugh, to cry, to jump on the teacher's lap and hug her thin neck. T wanted to run to the hole where Sister Greta had been thrust and give her satisfaction knowing she was right. I think I shivered, but, for the sake of my dignity, I was sitting. _Where do I start, Mrs. Burbage?_ I took a deep breath once, twice, three times and looked back into the woman's brown eyes.

— If I didn't believe it, teacher, things would get complicated — I smiled at her, looking up, imagining my room upstairs, remembering all my life. — So that's why? I… I have magic? Of course I do, I knew I did, but listening to this is so…!

I laughed alone and got up from my chair, turning around until I found her hands and squeeze, really squeeze, and when it wasn't enough, I hugged her. There were so many things in that hug that I was very happy to find out later that Charity Burbage wasn't a legilimens. The Stick breaking. The straps curling around Greta's feet. The stairs turning into ramps. The chairs flying. The glasses fixing itselfs. The doors unlocking. The girls who were so mean as Greta following some suggestions… The accident.

— Have you done magic by yourself? Great, great! This is called involuntary magic, honey, it's very common in children! Usually make something disappear or levitate, am I right?

_That and much more, and I wouldn't call it involuntary. Not since the accident._

— That's it! – I agreed laughing, my heart jumping as much as my feet. — That's it, that's it, that's it! I… oh, Mrs. Burbage! I'm so happy!

— I wonder, child, I wonder! — She laughed too, as she patted me on the back. — Now sit down, I'll explain you some things, alright?

I obeyed, though I didn't gave the best example of etiquette, by simply jumping on the table and swinging my legs, laughing on my own, and wanting to kiss all that old face, for freeing my shoulders from the weight of the unknown.

— As I said, I'm a teacher, and as you saw — she waved her wand, giving off a glittery glow that made me lose my breath. — I'm a wizard, just like you. I teach at Hogwarts, of course. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, to use the full name. It's a school that works like muggle boarding schools, who's not a wizard, Ms. Lewis, we call them muggles, and that's where you will learn everything you need to become a great wizard!

— What subject do you teach? — maybe she became my teacher? It was a hope.

— Muggles Studies, miss — smiled. — This is where we teach how muggles think and act to other wizards, but it is a elective class only from the third grade, what brings me to… — she took a little book out of her pocket that, with another wand movement and a word (I paid close attention now, _engorgio_) became a large leather-bound book, that looked like it had thousand pages or more. — Here it is. It's not really part of my job, but I like to give this gift to the enthusiastic kids.

_Hogwarts: A History_ was the title of the book, and on my lap I saw that the cover was not just leather, it had a beautifully designed coat of arms there, with four colours in the background, over the colors, animals: snake to green, lion to red, badger to yellow and eagle to blue. A ribbon with a latin phrase was underneath it, and I was grateful for learning to read the original bible: _Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus - Never Tickle a Sleeping Dragon._

I smiled at the green snake and ran my fingers over what appeared to be the school's motto. I looked deep into her eyes. Mrs. Burbage also offered me a thick letter and smile lovingly at me, so happy and receptive that if she had come in like this, I would have thought she was there to adopt me. I took the letter with trembling fingers and blinked away the tears. I didn't cry much, but I didn't care crying now. To know that everything was real… My voice was no more than a thread, as I had the letter and the book on my lap.

— Thank you, Mrs. Burbage, thank you very, very much.

_Mrs. M. Lewis_

_Third-floor room, south-west side, fifth door on the left._

_Saint Mary's Home for Girls._

_Chelmiford._


End file.
